


The Garden

by selmasthings



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst?, Creepy, Dystopia, I have never done this tagging business before, I suppose, Psychological Horror, Sphere of Ancient Knowledge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selmasthings/pseuds/selmasthings
Summary: I wrote this short story a few years ago and I thought it might be interesting to share it here. I suppose that other people have beta read it although as a short story, it is lightly edited. I got the inspiration for it after going to a curated tropical garden which was sedate and creepy in an interesting way. If you desire to leave feedback, it would be most welcome.Enjoy the story!





	The Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any problems with formatting: this is my first post on this humble website and I have not yet quite mastered the interface. My original document is well-spaced with paragraph breaks and the dialogue is all on a new line, but I couldn't seem to do that on here. If you know how to do this and are willing to share, please enlighten me!

The chimes began to resound, gently rousing me from a peaceful sleep. It was morning in The Garden and it was beautiful. 

The asters in my flower box were in full bloom, and my room was completely clean. There was no dust on my nightstand, or any other piece of furniture I had in the rooms in my small but comfortable apartment. I sat up and stretched, and reached for my lilac knee length skirt and white flowy blouse. I put on a straw hat with a lilac ribbon around it and set out to the kitchen to make myself some tea. I already had some water in the teapot, and after it was boiled and seasoned, the black tea was surprisingly flavorful, although it had been languishing in my cupboard for a number of months. I propped my feet up on my ottoman, looked out the window at the several Citizens prancing down beautiful paths, and switched on the news on my television. A reporter was standing in front of a field of lavender, wearing a green dress and short blonde hair, sporting the same hairstyle as I have.  
“As you can see, this new breed of taller lavender is particularly vibrant at this time of year,” she stated. The slight breeze was audible through her microphone. “The Garden’s fields of lavender are almost infinite, and the smell is nearly hypnotic.”  
The reporter droned on as I finished my tea. I put the mug in the sink and slipped on my relaxed loafers by the door. I lift my lace parasol, and put it over my shoulder. Closing the door behind me, I press the elevator button reading “G.”  
After a short wait, I find myself on a paved path near the main conservatory, with several sleek apartment buildings lining the wide paths. They are white and shiny, with bay windows on each floor. I open my parasol, and begin to stroll down the path. There are several parents with children scrambling down the paths, pointing at the rare tree species and flower breeds. I start down a hill. A man in white golf gloves with black stripes passed me. He was wearing a coarse polo shirt and beige khaki pants, and he had a thin, white cord looped around his wrist. The other end of the cord is attached to a series of straps embracing a young, probably late-teenage woman. Her hair was short, but frizzy, and her body had a sort of a sag, as if she had been internally broken and her posture was affected. She was dressed in a white shift, and wear a similar hat to mine, although hers has a ribbon around the chin. She was speaking incoherently, spouting a collection of fantasy memories of how she climbed an apple tree with a flying fish and they both had a picnic.  
“Yes, of course, Violette,” the assistant responded. He then attempted to divert her attention. “Look at the peonies!” she looked over and gasped. An old woman came over to me, as I was visibly gawking at her.  
“Move along,” she declared. “Haven’t you seen a forget-me-not before? Really, young people these days have no manners. It’s rude to stare at the forget-me-nots, darling.”  
“RIght,” I replied. “Sorry.”  
I continue down the long paved path, and approach a new fountain I have never seen, although I traverse this path every day. Its water spouted from what seemed like hundred of apertures in the dolphin statue, that danced and leaped like children on a warm summer day. I was drawn closer to it for some reason, as it was beautiful enough to warrant further investigation. There was a building behind it, with a restroom, vending machine, and other amenities. Near the side of the building, though, a narrow dirt path distorted the nearby grass. Curious, I approached it, and found myself overlooking a beautiful vista. Down the hill was a beautiful field of fragrant lavender plants, just like in the news show. Mesmerized by the sheer fragrance of the large volume of plants, I diverged from the path and sped to a run down the hill. I immersed myself within the tall, dusty plants, completely losing myself in the field. I pranced about, going up and down even more hills, laughing gleefully,until I found myself taking a break to sit down. Out of breath, I eventually stood up.  
Was it just me?   
Or was the lavender taller?  
I stood on my tiptoes to try to find my way back toward the fountain, but the top of the lavender seemed to be just out of sight. I tried jumping. Standing on loose hay that I collected in the labyrinth.  
Everything.   
But I just couldn’t see over the near-magical plants. Frustrated, I doubled over in tears.  
“Where am I?”  
I looked up at the sky, wringing my fist in anger.  
“Let me out!”  
As if to obey, I had a sudden drive to simply walk forward. I just had to do it. It was as if there was a scolding teacher in the back of my skull, a small itch that told me to bring myself forward. Sighing in submission, I obeyed. I kept walking until I reached two tall walls on hedge that I could walk between them, almost as if they were a passage. At the end of the passage was a thin leather book on a romanesque column, sitting there as if eager to be opened. Voracious for the written word, I ran toward the book and grabbed it.  
“In this maze lie any number of facts that man is not meant to know. Go back into the lavender fields and they will lead you back to the paths. You will remember nothing of this experience if that is your choice. I encourage you to do so. However, I wholeheartedly do not recommend that you continue. If you choose to continue, your mind and your memories are stored and maintained at the discretion of the Gardeners.”  
I completely ignored every warning. I turned right, as the maze allowed. Another small notebook, of the exact same size and scope, sat on one of the crumbled and fungous pillars. Picking it up once more, its otherworldly ideas infused into my mind, and they invigorated me. I was freshly picked tea in stale water. Surely the other Citizens were some kind of insane. There is nothing interesting about this garden. Surely just artifical. The whole thing derived from a fallacy.  
Decidedly, I turned left again, leaving my shoes neatly together by the last pillar. I needed them no longer. I thought freely.  
“These teas keep the Citizens trapped in a circle. They see the Garden, and they are impressed at its sheer size and scope. The many colors, species, and breeds of ‘flowers’ tickle their fancies, almost a childlike infatuation with a ‘pretty flower’ or a ‘big tree.’ At some point in life, intelligence matters no more as beauty is the only purpose for life.”  
My breath becomes ragged. I throw my hat behind, and run to the next pedestal.  
“There is a large and conveniently located exit right by the apartment buildings. It hasn’t been used in decades. The Citizens no longer notice. They are under the spell that the Garden casts. All Curiosity dies from their souls.” The parasol is long gone, as I become increasingly disheveled. I trip on a root as the next pedestal beckons me closer with every word that I painstakingly connect.  
“Why am I telling you this?” reads the next entry.  
My knees and palms are bleeding, and I am tempted to screech out in pain. I am so hungry for the answer to the question I can’t help but ignore it. My skirt snags on the thorns of the bushes and becomes entangled. I rip off its cheap material, in a mad dash for knowledge.  
Nearly naked, I grip the stone of the last pedestal. I pull open the nearly new leather notebook. Typed there, in clear, bold, ink reads,  
“So I can exploit it.”  
I didn’t even notice in my deep craving for knowledge that there was a strange motor noise behind the hedge. I was faced with a steel door, and before I could turn right to read the next entry, Gardeners dressed in white approached, carrying a large board with white straps.  
“Restrain it.”  
The Gardener was rough, pulling my sweaty, bleeding hands behind my unclothed back. The second man laid the board down on the mulchy floor of the hedgerows. The first pushed me into it, like laundry into the chutes. The second snapped me into several restraints, finishing by fastening my head to the crude tormenting knowledge that I would never be able to read the last of the entries.  
“NO!” I yelled, manic. “Let me read it!”  
Ignoring me, still stoic, one of the Gardeners pulled my arm out of the straps. It was suddenly cold, as it was wiped with an alcohol pad. I felt a sudden jab, as if I had been pierced to the bone by their crude inability to regard curiosity as anything other than a roadblock, hampering the progression of society.  
Six Months Later  
“Look at the fields, Mortimer!”  
“It’s Mister Godfried to you.”  
“Look at all the lavender! It’s so pretty! Just like that dream I have where I have a tea party with my parasol by the rocks!”  
“It is beautiful, Wilfred.”  
“Can I go see it?”  
The sad woman had been reduced to a childlike state. Mr. Godfried had his suspicions about the treatments. Of course, some left a part of the curiosity behind, but that could easily be stopped.  
“No, Wilfred. It isn’t safe for forget-me-nots.”  
“Please?”  
“No.”   
She pulled on his cord affixed to the her chest, reaching to get any closer to the seductive field of lavender.  
“No!” Mr. Godfried replied again, stronger this time. He pulled on the cord to draw Willfred toward him, and she faced him. He held out his finger condescendingly, to scold her.  
“If you try to go anywhere near those lavender fields, we will stay in the house for a week. No garden. No open windows. Just you in your room. Do you understand, young lady?”  
“Yes, Mr. Godfried.”  
“Good. Now, let’s look at the peonies, eh?”  
“Yes!”  
The fully grown woman was soon distracted by the unexpected ecstasy of peering at those plants. Those plants, that had told her so much, but taken so much away.  
“Can I touch it?” she asked, giddily.  
“No,” declared Mr. Godfried again. Willfred pranced on, incurring several stares from passerby. In passing, he stroked the petal on the peony behind the fence between his thumb and forefinger.  
Silk.  
Just like the rest of them.


End file.
